My story is true, in substance, and situational impulse on emotion.
Insipred in part by Carl Sandburg.
"THERE is a wolf in me … fangs pointed for tearing gashes …
a red tongue for raw meat … and the hot lapping of blood—I
keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me,
and the wilderness will not let it go."
Carl Sandburg...from "Wilderness" (Cornhuskers- 1918)
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White Out...By Ford Hume aka iceintioga
On the road that leads away from ordinary, I drove a spirit car
That carried me from safe at home, to nearby wilderness.
What was there, is always close, though to most, remains estranged;
Desire, fueled by passion, is the driving force that steered my way.
Ice has fangs, its frozen jaws always hungry for flesh,
Because of this , sheep were created, for wool-hats, and gloves
To segregate frost from heads, and hands...so wrapped
I pulled a sled across, the unmarked line that breaks a lake from land.
The setup was easy, drill and pick a rig from the bucket-
Gold flash chosen, laser hook, larvae threaded, routine...
But effective way to eliminate the middle man, that stands
Between me, and my food...I take their profits, by my labor.
Winds can vary in winter, over desert planes of frozen liquid,
Flurries can change logarithmic, quickly raising in numbers.
One turns into a thousand, when cold wind gains momentum
Passing over the Great Lakes, and perpetual open water.
I became staid, in the middle of a white out, a place where time is frozen,
And I could not make thing's appear, that are present...
My sled was a blur, a meter away...and I began to feel savage-out
Of grip of clock, and space-alive, alone, in a blank-white universe.
My minds eye captured a picture, of a wolf, the wolf described by a master.
The animal was me, and I had grown fangs, to lap at the blood of the storm;
Head layed back, I howled an ancient dirge-- a song of returning.
My echo was a spirits voice, carried back-- in the words of ancient men.
Though the wolf, and storm were gone, the wind still carried a lyric tone,
And spoke what it had grasped, from prairie-crossing--a cry in one last song;
I heard death-rattle words, in the dying tempest ..in the language of Lakotah
That my modern brain transcribed; 'Hoka Hey'..."It's a good day to die"
It is of the highest feelings of elation, to feel satisfied enough about your day,
To say that...but I felt it, because the wilderness is in me, and civilization
(Try as it might ) cannot remove it, because the wilderness will not let me go.
